Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

Fitzwilliam managed to control his temper by counting to twenty. Then he exploded. “Forgive me, brat; however, I am a grown man, answerable to no one, and I prefer not to speak of this!” His voice rose with every word until he was shouting. “Where I have been and what I have done is no one’s concern but my own!”

Darcy kept watching him, his ire growing more impossible to squelch with every silent moment that passed. Of all the inconsiderate baboons! Of all the self-centered, egomaniacal…! Fitzwilliam’s expression remained stoic as he tossed back another swallow.

“Has it something to do with Amanda?”

It was an insightful shot in the dark that showed immediate results. The comment snapped Fitzwilliam’s attention back to his cousin. “Tell me what it is in the phrase ‘I prefer not to speak about this’ that is escaping you?” Fitzwilliam’s eyes were dark and furious.

The tension between them was suffocating, intense enough to begin alarming surrounding tables, but Darcy was not going to retreat this time. For all of their lives, it had been the older and livelier Fitzwilliam leading the younger and more reserved Darcy, guiding him through life’s adventures. Darcy had always idolized his cousin, never crossing him or trying to harness his free spirit. However, now he realized Aunt Catherine was correct. Perhaps they had all let his cousin drift unchecked for far too long.

“Who was that veiled woman you left with earlier?” Darcy’s question was contemptuous.

Fitzwilliam almost choked on his drink.

“How dare you question me, you half-formed pup!” he shouted. “How long have you been here spying on me?!”

“Long enough to see you leave with your latest conquest. Is this another war widow, or are you back into opera singers? Or was this the wife of some dear friend?”

“Bloody hell!” Fitzwilliam roared, slamming his fist on the table and sending their glasses clattering across the table. “I don’t have to answer to you or to anyone!” The waiter, who had been approaching, quickly spun around to retreat back out the door.

“Oh, I understand now. You’ve been shacked up with some bit of muslin you found, is that it? This place is too expensive for a street whore, or was there more than one? I suppose if you drink enough, any behavior is acceptable.” Darcy was pushing his cousin as hard as he could.

“I should call you out for that, damn you to hell!” Fitzwilliam’s voice shook with rage as he slowly rose from his seat.

“Again?” Darcy’s bark of laughter was rife with scorn. Suddenly standing, he leaned over, his fists on the table. “Well, what is it then?! Who are you holed up with here? I know there’s a woman. The concierge said you were here with your wife!”

“Damn you to hell, Darcy, I am!” Fitzwilliam bellowed back.

Oh dear, this could not be a good sign. Darcy’s head shot back in confusion. It appeared Elizabeth’s wifely accusations were correct, and his hearing was going. His cousin had just said something that could not be, something that made no sense whatsoever. Quite humorous, really. No, no, no. Hell had not as yet frozen over, to his knowledge.

“Sorry?”

Fitzwilliam sank back into his chair, his fury spent. He rested his elbows atop the table; shaking hands raked through his hair. “It’s true, absolutely true, man. I am staying here with my wife. Amanda and I were married a little over four weeks ago. No one knows except you now, a half-deaf priest, and my batman. Oh, yes, and the entire office of the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Darcy stared unblinking at his cousin for several moments then smoothed down his waistcoat and straightened his cravat before summoning the trembling concierge over to the table. “Pardon me, my good man. I find that we are going to need a truly remarkable amount of alcohol brought to us, and also perhaps a private room and some food please…” When Darcy looked about, he was surprised at the empty dining room. “Well, damn my eyes—I guess this room will do fine. Where is everyone?”

***

“Aunt Catherine has her footmen everywhere, looking for you. She is that frantic, imagining you have done some grievous harm to yourself. I had to talk her out of calling in the Bow Street Runners.” It was very late evening, and they sat alone in the darkened dining room, the room illumined only by two table candles and the blazing fireplace. Moonlight reflected from snow newly settled on the garden outside the windows.

Fitzwilliam cast his eyes up to heaven. Eloquent as ever, he intoned reverently, “Shit.” He turned to Darcy. “How did you find me?”

“Natural brilliance, unsurpassed logic, plus I stumbled upon O’Malley. He’s a very good man, Fitzwilliam, but it appears he has a weakness for Gunther’s ices, as does Elizabeth. This week she has had a craving for lemon ices and figs. I spied him there and followed.”

Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. “I knew it! They have not said as much, but I do believe his wife, Isabella, has the same craving for ices as Elizabeth, and for the same reason.”